


Comfort in the dark

by Hexes



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Bath Sex, Bisexual Characters, Bottom Frodo, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Faramir is a disasterchild, Frodo is too, Fucked Up Power Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot, Purple Prose, Rape/Non-con Elements, Regrets, Sibling Incest, Size Difference, Strangers to Lovers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Zero Redeeming Qualities, all aboard the 3:10 to hell, dub-con, graphic descriptions of sibling incest, making the least bad of a situation, near exact quote from the book, no beta we die like men, no that's not how you deal with emotional trauma, switch Faramir, trope trope trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23777587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexes/pseuds/Hexes
Summary: When Frodo and Sam are captured by the Rangers of Ithilien, Faramir takes particular interest in the Ringbearer.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Comfort in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> This work follows Sing For Me, which I posted ages ago:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/11247216

The hands that seized them were rough; the oversized paws of men. Frodo thought only of Sam. Poor, sweet Sam, with his round cheeks and fiery temper. Frodo worried that his companion's quick tongue might doom them. Smeagol's timely disappearance was a matter for another time. The bag over his head nearly suffocated him, the puffing and wheezing from beside him worried him further for Sam's wellbeing. Poor Sam, the gentle, fierce soul. 

Frodo cried out, falling to his knees when the men shoved him down. He heard Sam beside him, growling up a storm, his fire burning hotter as Frodo's died down. They both gulped down the free air when the bags were removed, headless of the staleness. The man before them was stern, though soft. The burnishing of copper in his hair much more subdued than that of Sam's. Sam who was fairly breathing fire, trying to protect Frodo, despite being bound. The man seemed to know where they came from, even, to an extent, who they might be. He leaned forward, his emotions flashing in his eyes. 

Their interrogation was a disaster, both hobbits and men agitated and confused. At one turn they needed to be truthful, at another they required the utmost secrecy. The captain seemed fit to burst with impatience, barely containing himself when asking of their provenance, their mission, their companions. He bit out his question regarding Boromir's fate as though the words cut him.

The discovery of Boromir's death brought Frodo nearly to tears. His response to Faramir's question of friendship utterly inadequate for what Boromir had been to him. Friend, lover, teacher, companion... betrayer. Frodo choked down a gasp. Faramir's eyes narrowed, taking in the dark hair, the miserable flush of the halfling's cheeks. He had had the dream just as Boromir had done. Before his brother, even. He rose to tower over his captives, speculating.

"Take the other to the hold, see that he is cared for; I will interrogate this one privately." Faramir's eyes were disquietingly keen as he turned his gaze more closely over the brunet hobbit, he was neither a cruel nor faithless man, but there were some things that could not be helped. He watched quietly, heart aching as the captives were separated. 

The two halflings struggled valiantly against the separation, the red-headed one squirmed and kicked, carrying on his resistance far longer and more viciously than the brunet. Frodo seemed to go limp, fingers tangled in the sleeves of Faramir's tunic, though he continued to cry out for his companion long after he was out of sight, and his voice had faded. 

Faramir brought Frodo to his chambers. He had a suspicion that Frodo was well-heeled, given his gardener, and what looked to have been fine clothing some months ago. The poor thing was bedraggled, crushed by the journey, and the news of his former companion's death. He seemed haunted, to Faramir's sight, as though pain and despair shrouded him more heavily even than the grime of long travel. 

Faramir had thought to bathe after he had returned from his scouting, and so a large tub was waiting, full of still-steaming water. He sat, his exhaustion forcing down his shoulders and splaying his legs akimbo. He motioned vaguely between his captive and the tub, its little side table littered with sundries. The hobbit looked wary, eyes darting around first around the room, then back to Faramir. 

"What's this?" He ventured, soft though steely. 

"A more pleasant exchange," Faramir tried to put the halfling at ease, "please, bathe if you would, and talk with me. I wish to hear all you may tell of my brother." He leaned back, rendering himself smaller still, tilting his head against the wall, he sighed, releasing anguish. Frodo stared, torn at the promise of both a bath and an audience. He wavered, glancing at the hot bath, smelling vaguely of thyme and mint. His eyes skittered back to the man. Faramir looked only a little like his brother; though, perhaps, that was the low light. Frodo eked closer to the bath, but the man did not stir, his eyes having closed as he breathed slow and deep. 

Frodo quickly divested himself of his garments, lamenting their state, and the loss of their meagre protection. But the lazily curling steam had proven too great a temptation, and he had always been weak for the feel of water sluicing over his skin. Frodo availed himself of the brush sitting beside the tub in the washing basin, and the small bar of soap. He lathered the brush, bending to begin the work of scrubbing at his feet and legs. The sensation was nearly divine, and he groaned happily, forgetting for a moment that he was not alone. Faramir rustled behind him, clearing his throat softly. 

"My brother?" He prompted, taking care to not stare at the hobbit as he bent forward, his gone-thin buttocks swaying in an entirely too alluring manner. He suspected he may have an idea of what Boromir and Frodo had between one another. Faramir rolled one of his hands to encourage the captive, though Frodo could not see it.

"He..." Frodo paused, clearing his throat, "he arrived for the counsel dressed for riding, though without a horse," Frodo shifted slightly, now feeling the Man's gaze upon him, making him aware of the difference in their statures and statuses. He coughed, turning side-long. "I am ashamed to say that I did not ask him where his horse had gone... I was..." He paused, casting about for some phrasing that seemed to elude him. He began again, with a sigh, "I was unwell when he was first arrived." Faramir's eyes narrowed, catching the gleam of scar tissue in the hollow of the halfling's shoulder as he shifted about. Faramir stood, approaching slowly, aware of Frodo's wary scrutiny. He came to his knees, still taller than the hobbit, and reached a slow hand forward. 

"What's this?" Faramir trailed light fingertips over the raised knot of scar tissue. The wound was well healed, but icy to the touch, utterly abhorrent in contrast to the sweet, hot flesh that surrounded it. Frodo jerked back, his hand flying to cover the old wound, ashamed. He swallowed, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet of the room.

"I," he began, interrupting himself to turn away, "it was at - at Weathertop. I ran afoul of the Witch King..." Frodo trailed off, down a lane of memory as he lifted the brush to begin scrubbing his hands and arms, working quickly to his chest and neck. He seemed taken by some phantom, trying to scour it from his skin. "I was pierced by his blade, and there it broke against my bone; the darkness might have taken me, were it not for the Elves. We of the Shire resist the Fade, but the fair touch of the Valar was all that called me from that dark place." 

Faramir stared, utterly aghast. This slight creature had stood against one of the most loathsome beings in all Middle Earth, and spoke of it only under duress, and mostly to praise his healers. "Even so, they could not find my voice, so tired it was from my screams - it was your brother who coaxed it from within me," Frodo's ears went ruddy, and Faramir suddenly had little doubt how his brother had brought out the sweet voice now gracing him. His jaw clenched at the memories of his brother's lecherous streak. 

Faramir leaned forward, his mind ablaze. He took the brush from the little hobbit, murmuring an offer of help. Frodo's eyes glittered as he slowly relinquished his hold, turning to face the soaking tub, placing his hands upon the lip, looking all the world that he was preparing himself to be lashed.

"You are braver even than I had thought," Faramir allowed, wetting and lathering the brush before beginning to swipe it over Frodo's shoulders, "to stand against a foe so terrible." Faramir glowered at the self-deprecating chuckle Frodo huffed in response. 

"Mad's more like it," Frodo muttered, turning the praise aside. Faramir scowled, running the brush down the hobbit's back. To think that anyone would stand against the Witch King and brush it aside as fancy. 

"Perish the thought," Faramir demanded, scrubbing more vigorously. The hobbit's back bowed and he wheezed as though Faramir had slapped him. The man paused, confused. 

"Please," Frodo's voice was tremulous, and Faramir wondered if the little creature had spoken thus to his brother, sweet and needy, "gently!" He finished, glancing over his shoulder, inkberry eyes glistening like wet ink. Faramir nodded, dumbstruck in the face of such pleading beauty. 

For Frodo was beautiful, Faramir mused. His brother had always sought beauty in its many forms, indifferent of who or what possessed it. Faramir was overcome with curiosity and heartsickness. The hobbit clearly hadn't told him everything of his acquaintance with Boromir. He raked the brush down the length of Frodo's spine. The halfling drew once more like a bow, whining. The sound undid him, splashing over rarely visited memories like oil on a bonfire. His mouth ran away from him while he was caught in the conflagration. 

"Did he take you?" Faramir asked, revelling in the lovely cries wrung from the hobbit's lips. "No!" Frodo shook his head, curls bouncing wildly. "he shied from it: He thought that I am too small," he tilted his chin down, whispering his next confession, "we... he often held my thighs tight against himself." Frodo's glowing copper skin blushed darker, his cheeks burning. "He sometimes slipped his fingers inside of me, when we had time; he so enjoyed to take his leisure doing so..." the hobbit's voice trailed away, his eyes closing as he was wracked with a shiver, memories bubbling up from within. 

"He seemed to revel in lying behind me, working his fingers into me, his other hand against my lips, my neck, my breast..." Frodo shifted, hips rolling with his slight weight. Faramir brought the brush lower, softer, his mind consumed with his own memories of his brother. 

"He always did so enjoy sliding his fingers into his lovers." Faramir murmured, "I watched him once, with a tavern wench. He kept her in the bed, under his hands, until she had soaked the linens, so wet and ready, and still, he did not take her, not even after she had cried out for it, her body wracked with desire. He had brought me there to - to make a man of me, and would not take her so, until I had done." Faramir sucked in a shuddering breath, his stomach roiling with need. 

"Another time I watched him with a stablehand. He tied the lad over a saddle stand and worked his fingers into the exit of the boy's body, greedy and refusing to be denied. Boromir worked him until tears streamed from his eyes, delaying his release until the boy begged, and all at once he allowed it. The poor thing slipped from the waking world, limp and utterly spent, his seed pooled beneath him." 

Faramir recalled the exact look of supreme pleasure on Boromir's face, as though he had conquered an unknown peak. He had smirked at Faramir then, cocksure in a way that had left Faramir completely breathless. "Boromir collected the poor soul, righted his clothing, and slipped him into his bed..." Faramir had been at a loss for an entirely different reason, then, warmed by his brother's kindness to the sleeping boy. To be so demanding, and yet so gentle after he'd had his pleasure, caring for the one who had gifted it to him.

Faramir abandoned the brush, running his hands over the trembling hobbit, breathing in the humid air cloying them. He felt as though he were enchanted, hanging in some twilight between memory and present. He could nearly feel the ghostly touch of his brother twining with the fiery feel of the hobbit's glowing skin where he spread the suds and watched them glide over gone-too-slender ribs. Frodo made an intrigued sound, glancing over his shoulder, bidding the man continue with a look that would have brought even a greater man to utter ruin. 

"I asked him only the once, how he took his lovers and kept them wanting," Faramir curled a hand around Frodo's left shoulder, heedless of the chill of the Wraith scar. "He indulged my curiosity in our childhood bed, licking and biting my nipples until they were so sore I could stand no touch to them. Only when I was wretched with need did then slide his fingers into me, slowly, working me until I was pliant and wanting," he ran his hands down Frodo's hip, encouraged by the soft sounds caressing his ears. Faramir was certain he had not been so quiet under his brother's hands. He gasped in memory, "Then, after I was nearly mad with it - then he fucked me through the night, curling his fingers in one turn, and driving them inward until he could give no more, at another." Faramir traced his own fingers along the curve of both small cheeks, thumbs running inward to the hidden entrance. Frodo tilted his hips back, fairly purring, encouraging Faramir to continue speaking, continue touching, carry on this strange encounter. 

"He held me, prisoner, in that bed until I finally released, no touch upon my length, so powerfully it hit my chin," how embarrassed he had been, to think that he had come apart without a single touch to his cock. But Boromir had been driven feral with need at the sight of it, "I could barely breathe for it, but he was not yet done with me. He rolled me onto my stomach, and sheathed himself within my aching body, rutting against me until he reached his own crisis." Faramir remembered vividly the way his brother's body had shaken against his, Boromir's breath caught in his throat as he spent himself. "I could not sit the next day, despite my deep weariness, so arduously he had taken me." He recalled the agony of the bench beneath him, never mind the torment that his saddle had inflicted upon him. "He looked far too satisfied when I could not bear to sit to take meals for the day." Faramir leaned forward, lifting his hands from Frodo's body to collect the ewer to rinse away the suds sliding slickly along Frodo's glowing skin. 

"You are a thing of beauty," he breathed, captivated by the rivulets of water gliding along the planes and curves of his prisoner's body. Boromir always did crave beautiful things with avarice that nearly touched upon Dragon Sickness. Faramir set the ewer aside without care, returning his hands to the glowing skin before him, coppery and flushed with heat from his too-vigorous scrubbing. 

"You know," Frodo returned, casting a sultry look over his shoulder, his ink-black locks flowing along his back, "the first time your brother and I laid with each other was in a bath, in Rivendell; he released my voice, after weeks of silence, simply to hear me cry out for him," he broke off with a gasp as the man slid his hands down his thighs, gripping firmly, his mouth fallen open, eyes dark. 

"Let us into the bath, then," Faramir rose, dexterous fingers already applied to the task of stripping himself. Frodo bit his lip, glancing between the man, himself and the tub. He did not think they would fit, and leave any water in it. Faramir raised a demanding eyebrow, and Frodo felt himself overcome with desire, his belly blazing with it. He lifted his chin in mild defiance before climbing in. If Faramir wanted to deal with the mess, he supposed, that was a matter of his own interest. 

The lip of the tub was slightly too tall for Frodo to scale easily, and Faramir wondered how much of Frodo's incredibly slight stature factored into his brother's desire for the hobbit. He watched covetously, stripping his boots, mail, and gambeson. Frodo's moan at dropping into the hot water flashed across Faramir's ears like lightning, and he couldn't help but wonder how incredibly smug his brother must have felt, releasing such sounds from the reticent creature. Dropping his tunic, britches, and smalls into the pile at his side, he stalked forward, lured by the glittering inkberry eyes of his captive. Desire flared as Frodo stroked a finger across his lips, eyes falling half-lidded. Faramir wondered hazily who was imprisoning whom. Faramir leaned his palms against the lip of the tub, concern lancing through him, struck by the nature of their situation. 

"Are you sure?" He prompted, looking Frodo pointedly in the eye. The hobbit draped his arms along the lip of the tub, arching his back as his head tilted back, his eyes searing a path down his cheeks, across the water, and into Faramir's very soul. A slow, salacious smile curled its way across the plump bow of Frodo's mouth as his eyes blazed a path down Faramir's body, settling on his arousal, fanning the flames of his need. Frodo breathed deeply, as though scenting out Faramir's desire. 

"Come to me," he prompted, his nipples breaking the surface of the water, tightening in the cool air. The Ring glimmered on a whisper-fine chain about the hobbit's neck, but Faramir heard no call from it, too captivated by the delicate grace of Frodo's body. Faramir gave no thought to washing before entering the tub, no care spared for the water that would undoubtedly slop over the side: He could no longer resist Frodo, his brother's last lover, the bearer of such a crushing burden, a shining emblem of beauty and hope. Faramir's breath left him in a rush as he surrendered, sinking into the water, prostrating himself for the hobbit's pleasure. 

"You are beautiful, yourself," Frodo offered, settling himself into the man's lap, thighs splayed wide around Faramir's hips. "Tell me," he ran his hands over Faramir's chest, rolling his hips forward to brush their sexes together, "the night your brother first had you; why did you go to him, truly?" Frodo's bald inquiry nearly made Faramir squirm as he felt a blush bloom over his cheeks and down his throat, the glittering indigo eyes far too keen. Faramir had always surprised himself, blushing despite his experience.

"You must know," he breathed, settling his hand on Frodo's hips, "how comely he was, how... enthralling." Frodo nodded, tracing fingertips over Faramir's nipples, a soft noise of assent twining with Faramir's gentle moan. "The first time I saw him with a lover, we were but young, he had taken me down, into the lower levels of the city, to show me the ways of men grown -" he broke off, choking on his words as Frodo leaned forward to run his lips over Faramir's ear. 

"He - he paid for a night with a wench, telling me that we only needed the one," Faramir's hands began to roam, emboldened by Frodo's exploration, the memory washing over him. "She brought us back to her bed, and the look - oh, the look on Boromir's face as he stripped her, lips on her throat, hands at her breast - like there was nothing else in the world but her body, her voice." Faramir dipped his hands down, grasping Frodo's buttocks, gripping, pulling him closer, tighter. "He laid her back and slid his hand between her thighs, stroking over her until she shoved herself against him - and he? He worked his fingers into her, against her, until she could no longer speak for the pleasure of it..." He ran his fingertips along the cleft of Frodo's cheeks, lifting his hips against the scant weight of the halfling. Frodo leaned into the movement, nipping sharply at Faramir's neck to keep him talking.

"When I was certain she would scream herself hoarse, he called me over, stripped me of my clothes, and guided me into her, his hand slick with her need -" he groaned as Frodo bit into his shoulder, beginning to rock in his lap, matching his slow, rolling rhythm. "He laid over me, then, his cock between my thighs, and told me that a man's greatest gift to his lovers was their pleasure, wrought by his hands." Faramir ventured further, his fingers seeking Frodo's entrance, "but also that a man's own climax was cheap and came easily." He pressed lightly, electrified by the moan that broke from Frodo's lips. 

"And the stable boy?" Frodo gasped, pushing his hips back, his tongue flicking out to caress Faramir's earlobe, "did Boromir fuck him through you, too?" Faramir's head dropped back, hitting the lip of the tub with a dull thud. He wished now that Boromir had. 

"No," Faramir sighed, "but that was when I first realised that I desired my brother's affections in that manner," he reached out one arm, flicking away the water, and caught up a bottle of oil from the side table, leaving his other hand nestled in Frodo's cleft. "It was not long after that that I approached him, desperate for his hands - his tongue -" he pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spat it to the side, uncaring of where it landed. 

"The smile that twisted his lips was unlike any I had yet seen - the promise there was gravid with victory," he turned the bottle in his hand, pouring it along Frodo's shoulders, down the sweet hollows of his clavicles. He ran his hand through the oil warming it between their needy skin. Frodo glowed with it in the candlelight, like brilliantly polished finery, his black locks absolutely sinful, trailing down his neck and shoulders. Faramir breathed deeply, gorging himself on the vision before him, on their shared love for Boromir, their shared lust and need, their heartbreak and turmoil. 

"He took me to our childhood room not a week later, wild with need - the need for _me_ , or the debauchery, or something else - but he praised me as he never had done before, his hands in my hair, against my lips, fingers digging into my hips and shoulders as he stripped me in a flurry," he paused, lingering in the memory of Boromir's storm of passion, seams straining against the haste, his boots flung as far as was possible in the small room, as though his brother wanted to prevent any attempt at escape. Faramir swept his hand through the warm oil, thumbing Frodo's nipple only briefly before sliding his fingers further down, between Frodo's thighs and back behind his stones to press against the entrance he sought. Frodo shifted against him, curling his hips back to seek Faramir's fingers, his own hands busying themselves with wrapping around their lengths.

Faramir had burned then, almost as he did now, along his cheeks and down his chest, confronted with the reality of his brother's lust, of his own desire. He had folded away easily when shoved back to the bed, his britches fairly torn from his coltish legs. Boromir, though, barely took enough time to toe out of his boots, throw off his doublet and rip open the laces of his tunic, following Faramir to the bed, lips already questing feverishly along his clavicles and neck. The feeling of vulnerability had nearly brought him to flee, but then Boromir's tongue had found his nipple, and he had quite forgotten what he had been so anxious about. 

"He had me at least once a week after that, in as many ways as he could in the night," Faramir pressed in against Frodo's muscles, wishing to sheathe himself as his brother had. "One night he sat in front of the dressing table and had me suck him in front of the mirror," how Faramir had trembled, the looking glass somehow making their debauchery so much more tangible. Frodo moaned, his clever fingers wringing a growl from the man. 

"One hopes he returned the favour," Frodo asked, curling his hips to encourage Faramir's fingers, "he was quite skilled with his tongue," a fact of which Faramir was quite aware. 

"When he could contrive no new positions to take me, he had me take him - he crowded me behind a drape not a week later, tore open my trousers and sucked me until I nearly screamed." Boromir was no lover of song nor poetry, but his tongue was damnably deft. Hidden there, so near to the feasting hall, Boromir had gone on his knees, stroking himself while he licked and sucked his little brother into incoherence. "He spent himself on the floor between my boots while he worked me, reckless with want." Faramir slipped a finger inside the tight, fiery heat of the hobbit, his prisoner, his brother's lover. They both shuddered in the hot water of the bath, wrapped in their memories and present. "The next day he brought me into the stables where I had first seen him with a boy, and he opened himself to me - I am ashamed to say that I could not take the patience he had with me," he slipped a second finger in, drinking in Frodo's moan, so different from the sound of his brother's pleasure. Frodo worked himself back upon the fingers, his mouth fallen slack as he bit crescent-shaped cuts into the man's shoulders,

"I rode him until my completion, and wrung his from him as my seed dripped out, my fingers twisted up within his body as he keened for me." Faramir curled his fingers forward, revelling in the cry torn from Frodo's plush lips, the sound as sweet as summer berries. Frodo laid his finger, deft and sure along Faramir's lips.

"Let me give to you something that Boromir would not allow," rocking his hips forward as Faramir stared in wonder eyes wide and brow knit tightly. This small creature, so giving, so strong to bear a burden that few ever would understand, could ever hope to bear. Faramir nodded, dazed, as Frodo leaned forward, brushing his lips along the man's mouth, "let us to your bed," he breathed, eyes alight with pain and promise, fetching up the oil from the bathstand. Faramir blinked slowly, bewitched. Wrapping his hands around the hobbit's thighs he stood, bearing the scant weight easily. The icy chill of the stone floor was barely softened by the rugs laid upon it, but still, the shock could not cut through the haze of memories and need that clouded his vision, veiled his mind.

Faramir sat on the bed, heedless of pulling down the covers, his back to the headboard. He watched as Frodo spilt the remainder of the oil over his own chest, moaning as he ran his hand through the mess, letting the vial drop from his other hand as he lost himself in the sensuous slide of the oil under his hands, over his nipples. Frodo's lips curved wickedly as he dropped his hands to Faramir's chest, thumbing his nipples and pinching lightly. 

"You recall," Frodo purred, "that we came here for a reason?" He rocked slowly in Faramir's lap, the rolling of his hips a promise. 

"I believe I do," Faramir gasped in response, running fingers through a rivulet of oil snaking its way down from Frodo's nipple, "I believe I do," he said again, returning his fingers between the cheeks of Frodo's ass. He would dearly love to see the hobbit plump again, as he had appeared in the vision those many months ago, his eyes bright with laughter. But they were here now, the soft sighs of pleasure were their own music as he worked himself onto Faramir's fingers as much as Faramir worked himself inward. The transcendent beauty of his pleasure must have been intoxicating to Boromir, utterly irresistible. 

"You are lovely," he breathed in the face of Frodo's pleasure, "a delight to the senses." Two fingers now buried in the slight creature, opening the way. 

"I will be more lovely still," Frodo gasped, his eyes opening to bore sharply into Faramir's own, "if you would give yourself to me." Even impatient, he was heady and Faramir tried to resist just a moment longer. 

"I do not wish to hurt you, Frodo," he began to slip a third finger into the welcoming heat of the hobbit's body, "you are rather small..." He seemed impossibly tight around his fingers, to think what he might feel like, forge hot and wrapped around his length made Faramir's head swim with desire. 

"Enough," Frodo bit, well pleased by Faramir's swift obedience, the look of alarm that flashed across his face, his eyes wide, "now. Give yourself to me now." Faramir hesitated only a moment, helpless but to obey, even when his better judgement suggested caution. 

"Of course," he withdrew his fingers slowly, slipping them out one at a time to feast upon the look of Frodo's frustration and elation. "Your command is my pleasure." He brought his oil-slicked hand to his own desire, spreading the slick along his length. Frodo graced him with a reassuring smile, his eyes glittering with promise. He held himself upright as Frodo pushed down, head falling back in bliss. 

"You are a gift," Frodo breathed as he sank down, enveloping the man's need. The sweet heat seared along Frodo's back, setting him alright with desire as he rocked slowly down the fullness of Faramir's thick length, fingers biting into the man's lean shoulders, "I wish I had taken in Boromir so, even just once."

"He was a consummate lover," Faramir gasped, wrecked already with the heady feel of Frodo's body swallowing him down, "his touch set me ablaze, but his words... he could bring me nearly to completion with just his voice - oh!" Frodo had finally taken the whole of him, sitting against the man's thighs, breath stuttering with need and exertion. 

"Once, when he laid behind me in our bedrolls, his length between my thighs, he whispered into my ear of a sweet, redheaded boy of whom I reminded him. Spoke of how the darling cried for him, begged him, came apart from his fingers, so needy for release that he had screamed himself hoarse... he told me of you, though I did not know who you were, and I came apart beneath his wicked tongue so powerfully that I nearly screamed, myself." Frodo was panting, riding Faramir's length as though he were headed to the horizon. "I wanted you before I knew you, Faramir," he moaned as he dropped a hand to his length, wringing his completion from himself as Faramir's breathing faltered, his crisis fast approaching. 

"You will undo me," Faramir's head fell against the wall, fingers curling sharply into Frodo's hips as his pleasure crested, stealing his wits. He whimpered as Frodo shuddered atop him, his own climax ripping through the small body, tightening around Faramir's over-sensitive length. 

Slowly Frodo lifted himself away, running a soothing hand over Faramir's chest as they both gasped when he slipped out. Frodo smiled softly to feel the rush of seed slipping out from within, running down his thigh, a momentary reminder of their passion. He laid on the bed, motioning Faramir to join him. They curled together, sharing breath and memory. Frodo settled his hand over Faramir's heart, closing his eyes and drifting in the warm liminal space that had settled over them like twilight. He glanced up, catching the stormy eyes of his lover. 

"I did not know of Boromir's passing," Frodo whispered, his fingers now chasing shivers over Faramir's chest. "We parted under... unfortunate circumstances." Frodo's eyes fell closed, tasting the memory. "He was bewitched by the Ring - its dark and corrupt promises. The Ring brings nothing but pain, Faramir, to everyone that beholds it, to anyone that holds it..." he trailed away, shuddering, the Ring icy against their flesh, as though it was displeased by their disdain. 

Faramir sighed, the weight of his brother's passing still heavy upon his soul. He had always known of his brother's avarice, his desire to protect, his need to rise above. It was a painful thought, that Boromir's needs had been tainted by the Ring, corrupted into something that would bring him to enact violence on so small a being - a friend and lover. And yet, it was not a surprising revelation, which stung his soul in a different manner. Faramir ran his lips over the hobbit's riotous curls. He gave an oath:

"I would not take this thing - even were it laying on the path. Not even were my White City beset, and I alone could save her, using the Dark Lord's weapon for good, for glory. Such a triumph would be hollow - putrid. The Ring, I know brings blackness upon the souls of those who use it, and it would corrupt me, no matter my intents, no matter my strength. You are the Bearer, and upon your shoulders rests a burden that no one should have to bear," he pulled his arms tighter, embracing Frodo with as much tenderness as fierceness. "You must bring this thing to its end: You must rid this Middle Earth of what ails her." He ran his fingers through the hobbit's locks. "You and your companion must leave with the first light: You must do what none other has been able to. You are our hope, our light in the darkness." He watched as Frodo's lips curled, a haunted smile. It was a terrible sight. Hobbits were a joyous folk, their full, rosy cheeks meant to be glowing with cheer and comfort. 

"I will do this thing," Frodo swore, quietly. "At the end of all things, your tenderness may help me through. You have my thanks, and my condolences," he pressed a soft kiss to Faramir's brow. "I pray that we may meet again, under a brighter sky." Faramir smiled weakly, accepting the benediction. 

"Rest, now," he murmured, arranging the bedclothes, "and rise renewed for all tomorrow's battles."

**Author's Note:**

> After months and months, this is finally done.  
> I wanted something a bit more angsty, but someone got hopefulness all over my smut...  
> Please comment and kudos - I need social interaction @.@ I'm under a shelter-in-place order that just got upgraded to "masks whenever out of the house". I'm going around the bend, y'all. 
> 
> Health, wealth and happiness in this time of tribulation.
> 
> Re-proofed 28.04


End file.
